Who Was Left Behind?
by Mirus Infidus
Summary: You'll eventually return. I know, because I know you too well. And because of this, I know exactly what will happen. It's an endless loop, you know. How amusing it'll be to watch. 'In the pursuit of your own selfish dreams, you forgot everyone else.'


So, you fell in love? I'd ask.

No, you'd say, I was already in love; I just found it again.

It's the same thing, I'd say. Anyway, it was for your love that you left with her?

You'd take a bit of time to answer, perhaps knowing where I'm going with this line of questions. Choosing your words carefully, you'd finally say, Yes, but it wasn't as if I never looked back.

I know, I'd reply. I'd take no time to answer. Everything I'd say, I'd say it nonchalantly; you'd be reading between the lines, of course; you always did claim that I was one with ulterior motives. I'd keep talking, saying, _You did keep in touch. You knew nothing but what anyone told you, but you still felt involved, right? Likewise, no one knew anything about you but what you told._

Then I'd laugh and say, _Not that things were much different before you left_.

You'd probably have a million things to say to that, but you wouldn't want to say any of them, so you'd just say, _I know_, and keep your face set in stone.

_Ah, it must be wonderful, being so deeply in love_, I'd say. You'd look away, maybe clenching your fists, but maybe doing this after my next statement. And it'd be: _By the way, I notice she isn't with you_.

You wouldn't have to say anything, because we'd both know that I'd fill in all the gaps without your having to say a word, like Sherlock Holmes or one of those television detectives. _It's been a few years_, I'd say offhandedly, intentionally pausing to gauge your reaction. After a few seconds of silence, you'd look up at me, the look in your eyes asking me what I know, and you'd open your mouth to speak, but I would cut you off. _Since you left_, I'd say.

You'd nod lightly, then give a number of years, and your value would be two years less than reality. I'd correct you, then ask, _How have those years been for you?_

You'd paste on a smile, then cheerfully spill out some rubbish about what a wonderful life you'd had.

I know that you'd know that I'd know that you were hiding something, because we both know that you know me better than you'd like to. I wouldn't say anything about it, though, just smile casually and say, _That's good to hear. It's great, how simple and easy life can be, isn't it?_ You'd nod here, looking down, with your copy-and-paste smile cracking in pain. Then I'd continue: _I don't know if I can say that life here has been as simple as yours seems to have been._

That would scare you. You'd know what I was going to say, because it'd be what you had been worrying over for some time before finally returning and coming face-to-face with me. (Although I'm certain that our meeting would seem to you as if it were entirely coincidental.)

I'd click my tongue to bookmark what I'd said in your head—though I'm not sure this technique would work as well as I hope—and go back to what I'd said just a little earlier, saying, _Yes, what a nice life you've had._

Pause.

_Except_, I'd say, _it hasn't been all too simple nor easy, has it? Not lately._

Here you'd be nearly frowning, not at all liking where the conversation was heading, but you wouldn't say anything because you'd secretly want to hear what I would be saying, you'd want some sort of verification of your worries, because maybe then you could find a way to deal with them.

_Yes, in the beginning, maybe even for four or five years_, I'd say_, you were perfectly content with your life with her, and she felt the same way. It was 'true love', after all, right? I knew both of you well enough to know that that's what you thought it was._

_ But then something started changing. At least, then you started to notice things that you hadn't noticed before, so it seemed like something was changing. You may have actually changed. Grown up? Matured? Although, you two were always the type of people who never changed. Still, sometime, somewhere, you began to notice things were going wrong. She began noticing, too, of course. You two tried to bring back the lovebirds-on-the-run feeling of excitement that you'd had at the beginning of your escape, but you weren't able to. You couldn't even figure out why you had felt that way._

_ That's when things started to fall apart. It was slow, it had to be; change is hard, after all. It happened so slowly that you may not have noticed anything until you woke up one morning to find everything upside down. No, maybe upside down isn't the right way to describe it. Blank? Strangely empty? _

_Well, forget the adjectives; what matters are the verbs. You left. You escaped for the second time, but alone now. You told her before you left what you were feeling, and she probably cried and admitted something towards feeling the same, and proposed that you two work it out. That scared you, though, because you didn't like the thought of having to work towards getting something that once came naturally. So, you left. You didn't know what you were looking for; you were just performing some self-serving act._

_Lost, you wanted to go back to the past. That's impossible, though, and you knew this, so you decided to come back here, where, as far as you knew, nothing had changed. Right? It's a big city, after all; you could get lost and wander through familiar streets, and the noises and gray faces would all look the same. You could find everyone you'd left behind so long ago, and life would right itself._

_You forgot, though, in the pursuit of your own selfish dreams, everyone else_, I'd conclude.

You'd squirm, muttering, _I didn't forget,_ as a weak defense. You'd know that what I was saying was true, though; you'd only argue because you'd still be too proud to agree outright with what I say.

_You did_, I'd counter. _You promised to keep in touch. Oh, now, now, I don't know for certain if this promise was a verbal one made to another person, but you at least promised yourself. How long did it last? One year? Two years at most. Because of this, your image of everybody stayed the same, and you pushed them to a corner of your mind marked 'Reference.'_

_You don't think that everybody has had the same hopes as you, do you?_ I'd ask. You'd sit there with your fists clenched, starting to get angry, despite hearing what you already knew.

_These people you left behind so long ago, these people you say you still love, these people you want to find, what makes you think you still hold any place in their minds or their hearts except for a memory of their distant pasts? What makes you think they want you to find them?_

_Do you think they're looking for you?_ I'd ask.

That'd be it. That'd be all you wanted to hear, all you wanted to hear. You'd stand up, yell some sort of defense to me, like _What do you know, after all this time?_ You might try to assault me, but I'd still be too quick for you, and your anger would fly harmlessly into the open air. Then you'd leave me where I was, and you'd be telling yourself that, yes, it was true what I said, some people don't change, and that I was one of those people.

Your worries verified, though, you'd start turning possibilities over in your head. You'd do something big. It'd be something worth watching.

If you survived it all, I know our paths would cross again. And again, I'd ask you, _What about the ones you've loved and left? _It's an endless loop, you know. You'll always play into my hands, as you always have.

Now I've just got to wait for you to come back.

**Author's Note: Sorry if it was kind of hard to follow. After reading the volume of short stories **_**The Elephant Vanishes **_**by Haruki Murakami, I really wanted to try writing in this style. The plot (if you could call it that) is inspired by the song "Walk Away" by Dropkick Murphys.**

**I think it's easy enough to figure out about whom the narrator is speaking, although I must admit, the narrator really evolved in my mind from beginning to end, from a vague idea of who they are, to a definite one. XP maybe that's not proper….**


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